[BOOK2]
*****
I want her.
I want her more than I've ever wanted anything.
But I can't have her. Because the moment I admit that out loud, the moment I risk everything we've built, I could lose her.
And losing Isla? That's not an option.
*******
Is...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
My head is pounding, the kind of deep, throbbing pain that makes even the slightest movement feel unbearable. I squint against the bright morning light streaming through the window, groaning softly as I press my palms to my temples.
What the hell happened last night?
Flashes of the party flicker through my mind, disjointed and hazy—Becca's voice, the pounding music, the dancing, the drinks. Way too many drinks. My stomach churns as I try to piece together the mess of last night.
Did I barf? Oh God, did I actually barf?
My face heats at the thought, a wave of nausea threatening to overtake me again. The soft cotton brushing against my skin pulls me out of my spiral. My brows knit together as I realize I'm not in the clothes I was wearing last night. Instead, I'm in a shirt that's far too big for me, the hem brushing against my thighs.
I glance down, taking in the faded fabric. It's not just any shirt—it's a jersey. Confused, I twist to get a better look, the name emblazoned on the back of it catching my eye.
Dwyers.
Shit.
Double shit.
I sit up a little too quickly, groaning as my head protests the sudden movement. My mouth is dry, my thoughts scattered, and I'm struggling to piece everything together.
The door creaks open, and Theo steps inside, his movements slow and deliberate. A glass of water in one hand and paracetamol in the other, he walks over to me without saying a word. He holds them out, waiting patiently as I take them from him, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest second. Once I have them, he sinks onto the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving me, calm and steady in a way that somehow steadies me too.
"Morning," he says, his voice low and even. "Thought you might need these."
I sit up slowly, wincing at the dull ache behind my eyes, and accept the water and pills with a muttered, "Thanks."
As I swallow the pills and take a long sip of water, he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, his steady gaze never leaving mine.
"How're you feeling?"
"Like I went ten rounds with a freight train," I mumble, setting the glass on the nightstand. "Did I—" I groan, covering my face with my hands. "I barfed, didn't I?"
His lips twitch, but he holds back the smile. "You did. Twice."
"God," I groan again, peeking at him through my fingers. "Tell me I at least made it to the bathroom?"
"You did," he says, his tone so calm and casual that it almost makes me feel less embarrassed. "Eventually."
I drop my hands, shaking my head as heat floods my cheeks. "I'm so sorry. For all of it."
